What It Wouldn't Be, It Would
by Random-Battlecry
Summary: He really should have learned by now not to underestimate Ace’s penchant for experimenting. The Seventh Doctor and Ace, in the middle of it all. One-shot.


**What It Wouldn't Be, It Would**

One hour in to the Dramen Ich ceremonies on Netfole II, Ace was restless. Her elbow connected tellingly with the Doctor's ribs, producing in him a slight wince and a rather irritable hand-swat in her direction.

"I thought you said I'd be fascinated by this," she hissed at him. This being Ace, the hissing was loud. Like a vatful of peeved snakes, the Doctor thought.

"Well, I thought you would be." He diverted his eyes from the action on the field to meet her gaze briefly. "It's the inspiration for your Olympics."

"_My_ Olympics." She sounded disgusted. He didn't blame her.

"Well," he amended. "The ancient Greeks, anyway. The winner here received— will receive— has received— drat. What _did _I do with that manual on proper time-travel grammar?" It didn't actually matter to him in the least, but he felt vindicated by her small giggle. It made him grin, and swell a little, pridefully. "He's granted passage to the planet of his choice. His grandparents retired to earth two years ago, and he decides to go visit them. _Voila_, so it is— he finds himself a bit bored and influences ancient Greek culture, and here come the Games."

"Professor," Ace said, frowning a little and squinting at the far-off displays, because as full of steam and showmanship as the Doctor was, he still had been unable to get them good seats, "Professor, what are they doing now?"

He squinted at it himself. "Oh, come now, Ace. You've seen ancient sculptures from the time of the early Games, haven't you?"

"Yes." She sounded doubtful, but he gave a deep and decisive nod.

"Nothing like a strip-down and a good roll in the mud to cure all sorts of ill humors."

"Professor," she said, and she had the horrible suspicion that she was going to laugh. "Is this what you thought I'd like about the ceremonies?"

The answer was, secretly, yes; but he wasn't about to say so now that she'd guessed. He turned and looked down his nose at her with inexpressible dignity.

"It is my fond hope, young Ace," he said, "that you will take something from each experience I present to you and benefit from it as fully as possible."

She was giggling now, nose pressed into his sleeve and hand gripping his elbow. He rolled his eyes.

"Ah, youth," he muttered. She refused to look up till he agreed to leave.

* * *

"Professor."

The Doctor was in the midst of a hearty tinker with the TARDIS, and not keen on interrupting it. But Ace was determined.

"Professor!"

"Mmph!"

"No, you have to look," she said with something almost akin to patience, and so finally, giving the sparking wires a last warning frown, he did.

She twirled.

"I found it in the wardrobe. Isn't it fantastic?"

He watched her avidly.

"Most unusual, Ace."

The expression on his face was more than enough to make her self-conscious, and she stopped twirling and sashaying and clasped her hands in front of her.

"How's that?"

"Well, for starters it's unusual, not to say downright odd, for you to change your outfit when we're simply in flight and not in a time where appropriate dress is necessary."

"I got bored," she said, defensively. "It's like playing dress-up in that closet."

"And for finishers, you appear to have chosen Marie Antoinette's wedding dress. Which seems, if you don't mind my saying so, uncannily unlike you." His eyes were keen. He appeared to suspect her of being possessed.

"Well, perhaps I'm changing," she said, flippantly.

"I'd say you already have."

She spun on her heel and marched away, the ornate bustle of the dress bouncing rather than swaying from her determined gait. The Doctor allowed himself a small, rueful smile and returned to his wires, which had started a small fire in the interim. A few moments later, he heard again her commanding, "Professor!"

He popped his head over the grate at once this time. "What?"

Ace saluted, and he broke into a grin. "Where on earth did you find that?"

She didn't answer; didn't need to. The soldier's outfit had belonged to a young, small Roman and fit her snugly, the red of the fabric only slightly dulled by time; her pale legs descended bare from underneath the tunic. She drew the heavy sword from its scabbard and waved it, baring her teeth; her arm wavered only slightly from the weight.

"Much more suitable," the Doctor said, approvingly.

"Now all I need is to strip and roll around in the mud to cure my ill humors," she said thoughtfully.

"The TARDIS is far too clean for a mud pit, and that was the Greeks. Learn your ancient civilizations."

"But I always failed history!"

"We're trying to cure that, aren't we?" he said, and she tensed for a moment, then relaxed and nodded.

"If you say so."

"I do say so."

"Alright," she said, and saluted him with the sword this time. Her hand trembled and she nearly knocked herself in the head. He was out of the pocket and at her side in a flash, taking the sword from her.

"Going to have your eye out," he grumbled, and slotted the sword neatly into the scabbard again. "Now go and take it off."

She looked up at him. "But you said it suited me."

"So I did. That was before you started flinging pointy objects around vulnerable portions of your body." He took her by the shoulders, turned her about, and gave her a gentle shove. "Go."

She went.

* * *

"Is this another instance of flinging pointy objects around vulnerable portions of my body?"

He glared at her; but she only smirked.

"Unfortunately this is not the first time that I've had to save my companion from unwanted matrimonial entanglements," he said sternly. "But I daresay it is the first time that my companion has gotten themselves in such a situation through sheer stupidity."

"Nuts," said Ace rudely. "Only stupid people want to get married. And I'm not stupid."

The Doctor took another look at the video feed from outside the TARDIS. The angry mob was in full force. Pitchforks and torches— or, at least, the Daverlean Seven equivalents— were being waved.

"Uncanny," he said.

"What's that?"

"Well, all you did was run away from an arranged marriage, and here they are reacting as though they _know_ what a little beast you can be."

"Ha ha," she grumbled, rolling her eyes.

"Hmm, hmm," said the Doctor. "What on earth possessed you to make such a suggestion to the Daverlean Prince, anyway?"

"Oh, you know," she said, and yawned. "Wanted to mix things up a bit, that's all. Surely you understand the impulse."

"Surely I do, Ace, but that doesn't mean I go about insinuating things to the ruling classes when I've just been told that he's looking for a mate."

"Well, I should hope not, Professor," said Ace. She folded her arms. "Like I said, wanted to mix things up. And it was perfectly safe, anyway."

"Safe? Perfectly safe, was it? Ace, do you realize what your role would be, as a wife to the Prince of Daverlean Seven? It would entail being locked in a small box for most of your adult life— should you ever achieve it. And the times out of the box would be even worse." He looked her up and down and snorted in disgust. "Safe, she says."

"It was," Ace insisted, and on her face appeared the serene smile that he found so incendiary. "I knew you'd save me, from a box or otherwise."

And there was simply no arguing that.

* * *

"Bunk beds again!"

"You needn't sound so excited," said the Doctor reprovingly, keeping the door ajar just a bit to cadge a glance outside.

"But I am, though," said Ace, and she climbed agilely into the top bunk. "Just like when we were looking for Fenric. Stuck in the barracks— say, you wouldn't expect this lot to have bunk beds, would you?"

"Why's that?" He wasn't really paying attention; most of his thought processes were presently reserved for the watch that had been set up just outside their door, in the hallway. The two policemen were certainly eager beavers, he had to give them that. They sat stoic, their backs straight, their eyes wide. Nobody was getting in, but then, nobody was about to get out either; and he didn't like that. He liked to have at least the illusion of an escape route.

"I dunno," said Ace, shrugging. "They seem more— formal than that. Proper. I thought for a minute they were going to put us into separate wings, even."

"I wouldn't have let them do that," the Doctor responded immediately. His curiosity satisfied, he closed the door silently and gave her his full attention. "At any rate they're much more practical than you seem to think. They're convinced Hanmot is coming after us both— the safest place for us, perforce, is together, under their watchful eye."

"I thought—"

"Yes, yes," he waved her words away with a careless hand. "The actual safest place for us is inside the TARDIS. But just try telling them that. 'We want to go hide in that blue box outside, sir. Yes, I know it sounds silly, but it just might work.'"

"You never let something sounding silly stop you before."

"I didn't say it was stopping me," said the Doctor regally. "I said it would stop _them_. And mind your alliterations."

Ace groaned and flopped backwards on the upper bunk. "You are always right, aren't you? I'm going to get some sleep."

"Fine idea," said the Doctor, and sat down a bit stiffly on the lower of the beds. It had been a particularly trying day— a crash landing in the TARDIS, meeting a very angry farmer named Hanmot who was convinced they were demons from the fabled Ninth Dimension, fending off a barbarian horde for the inhabitants of the nearby city, the militant Gorbans, yet another incident with Hanmot, and now tucked away by the grateful but still militant and by now a mite curious Gorban police force. Perhaps the farmer was right and perhaps he was a looney, but there was no point in taking chances, seemed to be the stance of the Gorbans. The Doctor planted a hand on either side of his knees and leaned forward with a sigh.

"You know what I think," he said.

Ace's face appeared suddenly in front of him, nose to nose.

"No," she said, "but I know what I think."

"Oh yes, and what's that?"

"I think I'm not as tired as I thought I was."

"Perhaps," he said, going nearly cross-eyed trying to look at her. "But you do need your sleep. Big day tomorrow, you know."

"Why, what are we going to do tomorrow?"

"All sorts of things! Escape from here, for one, replace Hanmot's crop so he stops kicking up such a fuss, and then we're off! Time and space bowing to our indomitable will. The forces of nature putting on a show just for us. And tea. Lots of tea."

Ace's long blond ponytail succumbed to the pull of gravity and slithered down her back to hang in front of him as well.

"Professor—" she said.

He waited patiently, with only a slight lift of his eyebrows. She grinned at last, and shook her head.

"Nothing. Good night."

"Good night, Ace," he said, and she disappeared over the side of the bed again. He remained motionless, nearly frozen— at the idea of all the things to do tomorrow? Perhaps. At a sudden craving for tea? More likely. Was it wise to wait for the morning? Perhaps they should be ready to leave as soon as was possible. He opened his mouth.

"Just one more thing—" he said, and Ace was already hanging over the side of the bed, much closer this time, too close in fact; put her mouth to his without hesitation and apparently in the spirit of exploration. Her ponytail slid down her back and coiled on his shoulder like a small pet animal. Upside down, she curled her fingers around the underside of his jaw and kissed him deeper, but still carefully, as though he'd break. One hand lifted and he palmed the crown of her head, steadied and supported her; he was worried she'd fall. She'd land in his lap, he'd catch her, never fear— but their lines were elegant and unbroken and he didn't particularly want her to stop.

One hand wandered from his jaw and up to his hat, which he'd forgotten he had on. Ace took it off, and he was too preoccupied to protest. He felt it drift down his head— his eyes were closed— and his hand was nudged aside, the hat replacing it on her head. She was very still for a moment and then moved deeper once more, briefly, before retreating; kissing him on the cheek, she swung up and out of his range, still wearing his hat.

"Good night, Professor."

He never did figure out what the purpose of _that_ exercise was.

* * *

"Kindly stop arguing with me, young woman, and _sit down_." The Doctor's voice was steely, his eyes ice cold. Ace bit her tongue perforce, and obeyed resentfully. She made to rub a bit of soot from her cheek, but she had more of it on her fingers and it only rendered the condition of her face even worse.

"I don't see why you have to order me around. I'm not a child— I thought we'd agreed on that months ago."

"You agreed on it. I contend that stupid, childish tricks make one a stupid childish person, regardless of their age." He paced in front of her, his hands clasped behind his back.

"It wasn't stupid and childish! I knew exactly what I was doing!" Her face set in a frown that echoed his own, strangely.

"That makes it even worse." He stopped pacing and sat down abruptly across from her. "Going into danger _knowing_ what you were doing— how can that seem smart to you? You, Ace, who are so intelligent, so full of your street-smarts. How can you think—" He was mocking her, vaguely, and it made her angry.

"You do it all the time." It wasn't tears that were choking her up, it wasn't; it was fury. It was extremely hypocritical of the Doctor to be speaking to her like this, about this subject, when he knew quite well that out of the two of them, he was much the worse offender. "You're always getting us into scrapes, and even when you know—"

"Not _pointless_ ones, though, Ace! Never have I _pointlessly_ walked into the middle of a ruckus and invited myself in for tea! Can't you see that the ends may often justify the means, but the means never serve as an end in themselves. I would not try to _trick_ myself into a regeneration just to see if I like my hair better next time around, and you— you do not even have that luxury, if I must remind you. You're the only Ace there will ever be. I'll thank you to remember that."

She sat silent for a moment, and listened to the Doctor, breathing hard.

"The only Ace there will ever be," she said.

"Indeed," said the Doctor.

"And that's why you're angry, isn't it? Because you don't want me hurt."

"I never like to see a life wasted," said the Doctor sternly; and then, as she sat with her head bowed in thought, a little more softly— "But yes. I don't want to see you hurt. And there's no need, Ace, to go searching for trouble. We find more than enough as it is, don't we? There's no cause for boredom in the TARDIS, or out of it. Is there?"

If she let him make her troubles, she thought, head still down, that wouldn't be so bad. If she let him spin her fables, tell her stories, trace her lifelines. If she let him mix the ingredients in her chemical compounds, if she let him choose the settings for her experiments, if she let him flick the switch or pull the lever, if she let him light the fire every now and then— it would never be boring, that was for certain and sure. If she let him choose, he would choose to let her do what she wanted.

She lifted her head.

"No cause for boredom. I'll be good, Professor," she promised, and she managed a smile. "Within reason."

She didn't say _what_ reason, or _who's_. But this was not a trick, nor was it another experimental conversation. It was Ace, being honest. It made him relax, and made him smile, and when they stood and were the same height, it made him glad.


End file.
